


Like Real People Do

by Zingiber



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Romance, slightly crack-y
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25940071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zingiber/pseuds/Zingiber
Summary: “Let’sss have a wager, angel.  You n’me.”  He waggled his fingers, then had to curb an impulse to reach out and tap the end of Aziraphale’s pert nose.  “See who can last longer without miracles.”“Oh?”  A wicked gleam lit Aziraphale’s storm cloud eyes like lightning.  He leaned toward Crowley until little more than a breath hovered between their faces.  “And what do I get when I win, hmm?”-Aziraphale and Crowley make a bet to see who can last longer without performing miracles.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 160





	Like Real People Do

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based off a Tumblr post I made a while back.

It all started with a truly heroic amount of alcohol.

Crowley downed the dregs of his wine with a contented hum and glanced at Aziraphale. Seated beside him on the battered leather sofa of the bookshop’s back room, limned in the honeyed light of a nearby oil lamp – a decrepit trinket from eighteenth-century Sweden – the angel was the picture of contentment, cozy and decadent and utterly in his element. He traced a delicate tongue around the rim of his own glass, lapping up the last red droplets of wine. Crowley set down his glass with a loud _chink,_ pulse hammering in his ears. 

“Do the—the Gabriel impression again,” Aziraphale tittered. He paused, noticing the deplorably empty state of his glass, and refilled it with a bleary blink. “S’jolly good.”

Crowley snorted. Everything was warm and soft and pleasantly swimmy and Aziraphale was _adorable,_ wasn’t he, nattering on like the stuffy, middle-aged man he really wasn’t.

“Go on,” Aziraphale prompted. 

Crowley obliged, dropping his voice into an obnoxious American baritone. He plastered on a fake, blank grin, so wide it felt off-kilter. “Princi—…Prinshipality Aziraphale. You don’t happen to know where my flaming sssword is, do ya? I can’t find it anywhere. Coulda sworn I left it up my own ass, but Sandalphon’s been up there all day and hasn’t said a word—”

“Stop, stop,” Aziraphale gasped, giggling helplessly. “You’re terrible.”

Crowley tossed back the last of his wine and slammed down his glass, gripping his knees as he leaned toward the angel. “You asked for it!”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “What is it? Pamela’s box?”

“Pandora’s box.” Crowley grinned. “Look at you, properly plassstered. S’adorable.”

He set his teeth as soon as the word slipped out, as if he might catch the tail-end and drag it back into unspoken territory. Six-thousand years of knowing Aziraphale and he could count the number of times he had slipped up so awfully on one hand. Fortunately, Aziraphale only chuckled and lifted his glass for another drink. 

“A-anyway,” Crowley managed, “that Gabriel, huh? Feckin’ idiotic suit.”

“Oh, he’s… he’s not all that bad. Really, he does the best he can with what he has.”

“A brain the sssize of a chickpea, you mean,” Crowley surmised. “You’re sssuch a snot, angel.”

“And you’re such a fiend.”

“Y’know another thing about Archangel Arsehole? That creepy smile. He looks like he practices in front of a mirror.”

Aziraphale snorted into his glass, spraying flecks of wine across his lips and cheeks. He blinked, used his index finger to wipe away a droplet, and popped the finger between his lips. Crowley fought an impulse to grind his teeth. 

“Probably uses miracles to make his smiles seem genuine,” he added, ignoring the drum of his heart against his ribs. “Otherwise, any human who ran afoul of him would go mad. Eldritch horror, that smile.”

Aziraphale shook his head emphatically. “Gabriel would never squander a miracle on something so trivial. He’s an angel.”

 _“T_ _hat’s_ crap,” Crowley scoffed. “I happen to know a one angel in partic… particu… one certain angel who uses miracles for jussst about anything.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, and Crowley had the sudden sense of balancing on a knife edge between a jest and a true challenge. “I’m sure you don’t, my dear boy. Angels are the epitome of temperance. It’s a virtue, after all.”

“Look at you, feeding me that line like you think I’ll actually bite,” Crowley said. “You use miracles to add more marshmallowsss to your cocoa. Because you don’t feel like dragging out a chair to reach the pantry.”

“Well, _you_ use miracles to drive that infernal car of yours.”

“S’practical,” Crowley countered. “I need a human way to get around, don’t I? It’sss like a… a company lease.”

“Crowley, I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but there was a little dust-up about the world nearly ending a few years ago. Neither of us work anymore.”

“Pshaw.” Crowley lifted his glass for a drink, casting about for more examples to prove his point. There were many ready to hand. “You miracle lights on.”

“And you miracle them off again.”

“You use miracles to disss… di… make customers go ‘way.”

“You use them to talk to rats.”

“Yeah, but those’re coworkers. Minions, like.”

“Oh, of course. You only give each rat a name because no evil deeds would get done otherwise.”

“You’re the one who miracles tiny jumpers for them to wear,” Crowley grumbled into his drink.

“My _point_ is,” Aziraphale insisted after another prim sip of wine, “that I am naturally pre—…predestined to be better at temperance than you. It’s in our natures.” He fumbled over the word _‘predestined,’_ the drink tripping up his tongue, and Crowley was fairly sure he meant something else but couldn’t be arsed to figure out what. He was too busy trying not to marvel at Aziraphale, preening and proud with all his edges curled in a filament of golden lamplight. He wasn’t annoyed, not at all – but another emotion was rising fast to the surface of his mind, a leviathan of unstoppable force.

Pique.

“All right,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale widened his eyes, clearly thrown. “Beg pardon? Did you just… did I _win?”_

“Nah,” Crowley said, smirking as the angel’s face fell. “Let’sss have a wager, angel. You n’me.” He waggled his fingers, then had to curb an impulse to reach out and tap the end of Aziraphale’s pert nose. “See who can last longer without miracles.”

“Oh?” A wicked gleam lit Aziraphale’s storm cloud eyes like lightning. He leaned toward Crowley until little more than a breath hovered between their faces. “And what do I get when I win, hmm?”

For a long moment, Crowley could say nothing. Aziraphale’s scent – old paper and leather, the faintest trace of tobacco and a whiff of some pastry Crowley couldn’t identify – it was close, filling his senses, a temptation so potent he wanted to dart out his tongue and taste it. 

Aziraphale cocked his head. “Crowley?”

“When you win?” Crowley managed, relieved when his voice didn’t waver. “Bit cheeky, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale drew back and pressed his fingertips to his mouth, cheeks flushed, and Crowley couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or simply drunk. “Perhaps. Would that be a problem?”

“Not at all.” Crowley bit the inside of his cheek and willed his pulse to slow. “No time like the present, yeah? Let’s start now.”

“Let’s,” Aziraphale said, and raised his glass to toast. 

-

All things considered, Aziraphale was quite confident he would give Crowley a butt-licking for the ages. The poor old boy wouldn’t know what hit him.

Aziraphale smirked to himself as he puttered around the little kitchenette above the bookshop, filling the tea kettle and setting it on the hob to boil. They had agreed, in the precise, deliberate way of drunks, to begin in earnest the next day. Best to have a clear head, after all, and Aziraphale’s senses had been too blurry to keep track of the miracles he wielded with less thought than breath or heartbeat. 

Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder as he rifled in the cupboard for a mug and sachet of cocoa. The kettle wasn’t whistling yet, but it was clicking in a distinctly ominous manner. Usually he miracled the cocoa to the perfect temperature, and the novelty of this challenge had his nerves all a-flutter. 

His musings continued as he took out the sachet and tapped it absently against the countertop. Part of the intrigue of this little wager would be curbing their instinctual miracles – the ones they made based on expectation. The odds were really stacked against Crowley on that score. The poor boy flew through London at over one-hundred miles per hour in that infernal car purely because he believed pedestrians wouldn’t wander into his path.

A frown furrowed his brow. He would have to clarify that point with the demon. They might be separated from their respective head offices, but there would be no end to the trouble if their bet incurred human casualties.

The kettle began to whistle as Aziraphale poured cocoa powder into a mug. He paused, casting about for marshmallows, and groaned. They were in the cupboard above the stove. Of _course_ they were. 

“Blast,” he muttered. He dragged a chair away from the tiny kitchen table and propped it beside the stove, climbing up with a grunt. The marshmallows had migrated to the back of the cupboard. He shoved aside a bag of bread flour and leaned forward, straining to reach them.

It was only when the kettle began to scream in earnest that Aziraphale noticed the pain in his thigh, a white-hot bloom searing through his trousers. He shrieked and jerked back, arms windmilling, and toppled from the chair. The floor flew up to meet him, a blow that knocked the breath from his lungs. Distantly, he heard a _clang_ as the teakettle clattered to the floor, spilling steaming water everywhere. Aziraphale clambered upright, shaking, and hopped one-legged into the sitting room. He collapsed on the sofa. His entire leg was a welter of pain.

“Bugger,” he muttered, and clapped a hand over his mouth. Perhaps this wouldn’t be such an easy victory after all.

-

Crowley woke the next morning to the scraping, repeated stab of a chisel on the inside of his skull. 

Groaning, he sat up and cast a squinting glare around the room. Everything was painfully bright, strobing wobbly lines of light across his vision. He pinched the bridge of his nose and swore. He’d had this posh, monochrome flat designed to be posh and monochrome and uninhabitably ugly because the kind of human he was pretending to be didn’t want to _deal_ with bright lights when he was hungover. Fuck’s sake.

He lowered his hand, intent on plucking power from Down There to alleviate the headache. He stopped. Bloody balls and _fuck,_ he had Aziraphale had made a bet to see who could last longer without performing miracles. He couldn’t lose less than twenty-four hours in.

He climbed out of bed and staggered into the kitchen, where he rifled around in the cupboard for a dusty glass to fill from the tap. He tipped back his head and drank, thinking of Aziraphale’s smug smirk, the way it pulled his plush lips to one side. He’d been rosy with drink, making his changeable eyes look blue as winter ice. 

“’ _Predestined_ to be better at temperance than you,’” he said, pitching his voice into a mocking falsetto. He downed the rest of the glass and slammed it down on the counter. “Predestine my arse, angel.”

Once he felt less like Aziraphale’s dead dove, he dressed for the day and stepped outside. Right into a pile of dog poo.

He might have shrieked, though he would lie to a certain Someone’s face before admitting it. Swearing venomously, he scrambled over to the grass and tried to scrape off the poo. It was a wasted effort. The stench lingered long after he’d stalked off toward the Bentley, a pong that could only be miracled away. Which he would not do. Of course.

Grumbling, Crowley slammed shut the front door of the Bentley and waited. It took him approximately three seconds before he remembered that most cars don’t just _start_ when you sit in them, that the ignition needs to be… turned on, somehow. He spent another five minutes digging through his glove compartment, cursing and sneezing as he rifled through ancient cassettes that had once been something else but were now all, irreparably, Queen. He unearthed a rusty set of keys, jammed one into the ignition, and practically squealed with delight when the engine wheezed asthmatically to life.

Not _actually_ squealed, of course. Demons don’t squeal.

Crowley was resolutely _not_ squealing with delight as the Bentley veered down the road and into the flow of London traffic. Sod miracles. This was the power of machinery – gall, grit, and gears, all entwined in a wondrous feat of human innovation.

In nearly a century of owning the Bentley, Crowley had only thought to put petrol in it once. He’d wanted the James Bond bullet-holes-in-the-windscreen transfers, and that had been in 1967. He’d got the petrol, got the transfers, and then got spectacularly drunk with Aziraphale to celebrate. He’d blacked out and woken up three days later with his head pillowed on the angel’s soft, bare stomach. Aziraphale had been weird that morning, stiff and skittish, and it had only occurred to Crowley months later – after _you go too fast for me –_ that the angel had been mustering his courage to hand over the holy water. 

Point was, Crowley’d had a lot on his mind in 1967. He wouldn’t be able to recall how to put petrol in a car with a Super Soaker of holy water pointed at his head. 

He came to this conclusion exactly half a mile down Davies Street, when the forty-year old dregs of petrol were subsumed in a noxious belch. The Bentley – wondrous feat of human innovation – slowed and creaked to a halt. 

“Shit,” Crowley hissed. Car horns all around began to wail in protest. “Shitshit _shit.”_

-

The incident with the teakettle had been… unpleasant, but Aziraphale would not let his resolve falter. The Almighty had made this world rife with obstacles, tests designed to try one’s faith. If Abraham could risk killing his son for the sake of faith, Aziraphale could deal with a little burn.

“Oh, crumbs,” he muttered, wincing as he dabbed salve across the red weal. He’d stripped down to his smalls for the task; if he wouldn’t be using miracles, he didn’t dare contaminate his trousers with mysterious medical goo. He pushed a plaster down, but it wouldn’t stick. “Stay _on,_ you ruddy…”

The telephone in his sitting room shrilled. Aziraphale hobbled over and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“Angel.” If Crowley’s tone had been any more casual, it would have been sauntering around the Garden in its birthday suit. “How’re you holding up?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and lowered his voice to a lazy drawl. “Oh, my dear, how kind of you to call. Everything is going quite—quite swimmingly, actually.”

“Really?” A note of interest entered Crowley’s voice, interest and… was that _irritation?_ “Ehhh, no… dunno… headaches? Nausea?”

Aziraphale blinked, taken aback for a single second before he understood. “You mean from excessive drinking. Oh, my dear, are you not well?”

“I’m fine,” Crowley snapped “Don’t change the subject. You really aren’t hungover?”

“Well, no. Positively in the pink. I do have a little more, ah, meat on my bones than you do. And I hydrate on a regular basis. You really ought to take better care of your corporation, my dear. Perhaps if you drank more w—”

“All right, I didn’t ask for a bloody sermon,” Crowley interjected. He sounded a shade tetchier than normal; probably the hangover. Aziraphale pitied him, but that feeling was overwhelmed by smug satisfaction. Less than twelve hours had passed and he was already trouncing the demon. “Look, let’s meet at the Ritz. My treat. Six o’clock?”

A thrill fluttered through Aziraphale’s chest. His fingers tightened around the receiver. “Oh. Well, that would be splendid. Thank you.”

“Bah. Don’t start. Just be ready by six.”

Crowley rang off before Aziraphale could reply. Smirking, he lowered the phone into its cradle and clapped his hands in triumph. His thoughts were all aflutter, the prospect of really, properly sticking it to Crowley banishing the pain of his leg. Abstaining from miracles wasn’t all that difficult, really, and once he won the wager—

Oh. Come to think of it, he and Crowley hadn’t actually specified the stakes of their bet. They would have to clarify that over dinner. There seemed little point to a hard-won victory if the prize wasn’t worth the effort. He drummed his fingers together, considering his options. If these were the old days, he would have Crowley perform a few of the more inconvenient blessings on his roster, but he was no longer on Heaven’s payroll, so that was a moot point. 

Aziraphale dressed painstakingly and shuffled toward the stairs. It was a few hours yet until Crowley would arrive, but judging by how much his leg hurt, he would need the extra time. He made it in the end, his grip white-knuckled on the bannister all the while. He stumbled into the bookshop, heart hammering and sweat damp on his brow. A knock sounded at the front door just as he was eyeing the seat behind the till, sorely tempted.

“We’re closed,” he called.

The door opened with a tinkling of the front bell. _Bugger._ Aziraphale always locked the door when he wasn’t in the shop, but he always _miracled_ it locked. He’d forgotten to do it properly.

A group of men sidled into the shop – one at the front, grayer and more hard-bitten than the four at his back. All were tall and burly and looked about as pleasant as a mouthful of broken glass. 

“Mr. Fell,” said their leader. He had a Brummie accent, voice coal-deep and rough. “You’ve been punishingly difficult to get ahold of.”

“Ah. Gentleman.” Aziraphale forced a tense smile. “So good of you to stop by again. As usual, I’m afraid the shop is most definitely not up for sale, but if you’d like to peruse the shelves…” He trailed off. He’d been storing up a miracle to befuddle the men, send them on their way, perhaps even turn them toward their true callings as poets and artists and dog-groomers, but—

“…you’re quite welcome to,” he finished lamely.

The leader made a show of casting an appraising eye over the shelves, then shrugged. “Nah. Never much of a reader, me. But I’ve got to say, this place is quite the little tinderbox. Absolutely _arid.”_ His goons nodded, muttering agreement. One was so bold as to reach out and run his grubby fingers over the cracked spine of a second-edition Carpenter. 

Aziraphale felt his smile tighten into a snarl. Surely Crowley wouldn’t mind if he used just one miracle, for an emergency. He would do the same if the Bentley were in peril. And after seeing the bookshop burn when the world almost ended… well, Aziraphale hadn’t dared press Crowley about that time. Broaching the subject would be pressing on a fresh bruise, but he knew Crowley would think him a fool for putting the shop in any real danger for the sake of a silly bet. 

But for all his rationalizations, Aziraphale couldn’t make himself summon the power to do it. His fingers smoldered with holy power to send the men on their way… but no. He couldn’t give in, couldn’t fold like wet paper at the first rumble of thunder. 

“I-I-I’m afraid we are closed,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets to hide their trembling. “Dreadfully sorry, dear boys, but…”

“Not a problem,” the leader said. He smiled, suddenly the picture of affability. “Listen, why don’t I leave my card.” He slid one out of his coat pocket and into Aziraphale’s hand without awaiting response. “Give it a think, yeah? I’d give you a good price for this spot. Better than anything you’d get otherwise. And _loads_ better than nothing at all.” His smile widened, took on a knife-edge sharpness. “That’d be a crying shame, that would. To have this lovely little tinderbox, then have nothing at all.”

For the first time in all his dealings with the mob, Aziraphale entertained the possibility that there might be consequences – that they might follow through on their threats. An icy fist of fear curled around his entrails.

“Of course,” he managed at last. Then, docile as a lamb, he let the men out.

-

Something was off with Aziraphale. Crowley couldn’t quite ferret out what, but he’d known it from the moment he entered the bookshop. 

He’d had a bastard of a time, himself. After running out of petrol in the middle of London traffic, he and the Bentley had been escorted off the road by some very snide police officers. 

“Dunno the last time I saw someone your age just…” The officer ticketing him had waved a hand. He studied Crowley, and the demon needed no miracles to read the scornful bemusement on his pale, placid face. _Posh wanker. Must never put on his own petrol._

Crowley had memorized the officer’s face for later, intent on vengeful mischief once this bollocksing wager was done with. And then he’d accepted the ticket. Because when you were neck-deep in a wager against Aziraphale, you didn’t forfeit over something as idiotic as a traffic violation. 

Crowley darted a wary glance at the Bentley’s fuel gauge, as he had been doing every other minute since he’d got more petrol in it. Well, _he_ hadn’t put the petrol on, really. That had been an old lady roughly the size of a hummingbird, who had seen Crowley fretting at the pump where the police left him. His plight must have activated some hair-trigger granny instinct, because just when he was working himself into a panic over which type of petrol to use, she had come flying to his rescue like Cinderella’s fairy godmother, except instead of a fine dress and shoes and a horse-drawn carriage, she had calmly pushed one of the buttons and gave him a conciliatory pat on the cheek. 

“Didn’t know how to do it until I was fifty, myself,” she said with a rueful laugh. “And my George was off on a work retreat, him always being the one who put on the petrol. Don’t fret over it.”

Crowley couldn’t find it in himself to be vengeful toward her. 

He glanced at Aziraphale, sitting tight-lipped in the passenger seat. His hands were folded into fists on his lap and his gaze was fixed forward. A weight of dread had permeated the very shop when Crowley drove by to fetch him – admittedly long after the agreed-upon six o’clock. Crowley had learned very quickly after getting more petrol that driving without miracles required intense focus – and the patience of a saint, given how stupid pedestrians and other motorists could be. When he finally arrived at the shop, it was half six and he first mistook the ominous cloud of Aziraphale’s mood to be anger. 

Now, though… now, he wasn’t sure. Aziraphale had waved off the delay, his troubled gaze turned inward as Crowley drove. Crowley wanted to needle him with more questions, get to the root of his distress, but that required focus and if he focused on anything beyond driving and fretting, he would get them both discorporated in a grisly traffic collision. While barely scraping past ten miles-per-hour in the middle of London.

It sounded impossible, but Crowley wasn’t willing to risk it.

They arrived at the Ritz unscathed. Crowley deflated with a sigh as he leaned against the steering wheel and petted the dash fondly. “Thank you. There’s a good car. There’s an _incredible_ car.”

“If you’re quite done romancing the Bentley,” Aziraphale said coolly, and opened the passenger door to step out. Crowley briefly contemplated kissing the steering wheel, decided against it, and followed.

As they walked down the pavement, Aziraphale winced and clapped a hand to his thigh. The color drained from his face.

Crowley stopped, instantly on alert. “Angel? All right?”

“Fine, fine.” Aziraphale waved him off with a tight smile and continued walking, though there was a marked caution in his steps that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “Perfectly fine, dear boy. But I _am_ feeling absolutely ravenous.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, certain something was amiss, but he didn’t push. “Right. We’ll sort that, don’t fret.”

Only they couldn’t. They were stopped at the door by a young lady who informed them that, no, they had not made any reservations to dine at the Ritz at six and besides, any reservation that went unmet past fifteen minutes was forfeit. They’d never had a table, and even if they had, it would have been snapped up ages ago.

Aziraphale looked poleaxed. Crowley suspected he looked the same. It was unheard-of. Unfathomable. 

“W-well,” Aziraphale said tremulously, “I… I-I suppose we could… look for somewhere else to eat?”

Crowley looked at him and felt his heart twist. Aziraphale looked crestfallen, lips turned down and trembling, eyes shining as if with the first sheen of tears, and Crowley wanted to end the bet at once, to ensure a table opened up for them, and the miracle was smoldering on the tips of his fingers when he caught the angel’s eye and stopped. Aziraphale looked away quickly, but the guilt was stamped across his face.

“You _bastard,”_ Crowley snarled. “Trying to—”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, my dear. I really haven’t.”

Crowley barked a derisive laugh. “That’s rich. What, you thought you’d pout and bat your lashes and I’d be putty in your hands, is that it? Thought I’d be that easy to trick?”

The flush rising in Aziraphale’s cheeks belied his scoff. “Hardly. I… well, if you insist on knowing, I… am _aware_ that you enjoy, um.”

“What, angel? What do I enjoy?” An edge of hysteria was creeping into Crowley’s voice, growing more shrill with each syllable. “Because I can’t seem to find a single sodding thing about this entire affair enjoyable!”

“Indulging me.” Aziraphale bit his lip. “I simply thought, well, that I might… use that to my advantage.”

A film reel unspooled through Crowley’s thoughts, one of crowds packing the Globe to see Hamlet and unlocked fetters at the Bastille and crepes at fussy little cafes and bookbags wrenched out of the stiff fingers of a Nazi corpse and _I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go._ He jabbed an accusatory finger in Aziraphale’s face. “Knew it! I knew it! Look at you, making mountains out of mole-hills, angel. As if you’ve never indulged me. What about the holy wa—”

“I didn’t enjoy that.” Aziraphale’s tone was bedrock, brooking no argument. “I didn’t.”

Silence settled over them with a palpable weight. Crowley stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. Guilt fumed in his chest, a noxious cloud that threatened to choke him. He didn’t need to breathe, of course, but the pain was real enough. 

“Let’s be proper Londoners, then,” he said briskly, nodding toward a side-street. “There’s a place down that way. Quality fish and chips. And kebabs.” Seeing Aziraphale cringe, he hesitated, an idea coalescing. Making an effort to hide his grin, he added, “Greasy fare. Salt and vinegar, and no utensils. _Finger food._ You’ll loathe it.”

For the briefest moment, he saw Aziraphale’s resolve waver. Hairline cracks were forming, spreading, reaching down to corrode the angel’s very foundation. What good was a silly wager when food was on the line?

Aziraphale set his teeth and nodded, as if accepting a deadly task. “Very well. We can have… fish and chips.”

Later, as he watched Aziraphale eat chip after chip with bravado, Crowley revised his standards for the angel’s tenacity. If he wanted to win this little bet, he would have to wile and tempt with all he had. 

Aziraphale popped another chip into his mouth with a pleased hum, mouth puckering around a spot of vinegar. His fingers and lips glistened with grease. Seated beside him, Crowley stared with unmasked fascination.

He could wait a little while longer. No point in rushing things.

-

Aziraphale was beginning to suspect the world was out to get him. 

The path of his daily routine, it seemed, was less well-trodden and more riddled with bumps and potholes and scraping rocks without miracles to smooth the way. The morning after eating fish and chips with Crowley, he had scarcely stepped outside the shop, umbrella raised against the bulleting rain, when a truck careened around the corner and drenched him in a wave of curb water. His shoes, trousers, and the bottom of his waistcoat were soaked. Uttering an oath in a long-dead language, he turned around and went back inside. 

At a loss for how to clean the clothes, he settled for folding them into a garbage bag and setting them aside. He would find a laundromat, or wheedle Crowley into miracling them clean once all this silliness was over. 

As he removed and folded the waistcoat, a slip of paper fell out and fluttered to the floor. Aziraphale picked it up. It was the card of that mafia fellow, the one with the cliché but sincere arson threats. Frowning, Aziraphale folded the card in half and set it by the till. He would contend with that later.

Next came the burn. Aziraphale had hoped the injury would heal in a day or two, but judging from the steady pain and ghastly, persistent weeping, he had a good deal longer to wait. 

He applied a dollop of antibiotic cream to the burn with care. How did humans manage to survive with injuries plaguing them all their lives? How had they overwhelmed the world when they could so easily burn, bleed, break? It boggled the mind. 

A knock came at the door. “Angel? You in there?”

Aziraphale peeled a plaster off its backing and pressed it over the burn. “Yes, yes. Come in.”

No sooner had he uttered the words than he realized he’d made a mistake. Crowley opened the door, stepped inside—and froze, wide eyes sweeping him from head to foot. Aziraphale’s lips parted, but he could think of nothing to say. 

“What’re you—” Crowley cleared his throat, gaze darting between Aziraphale and the floor and back again. “Wh-what, need miracles to find your trousers, angel?”

“Hardly.” Aziraphale’s voice was barely more than a rasp. He tried to roll his eyes, but the gesture felt like a frail sham of indignation. “I just… well, I got into a little mishap with, ah. My teakettle.”

Reluctantly, he lifted his hands from the plaster. Crowley’s eyes grew impossibly wider and he strode across the room, bending on one knee to inspect him. Aziraphale cast his eyes to the ceiling, ashamed. 

“How bad is it?” Crowley demanded. His fingers feathered around the edges of the plaster, barely-there touches that tickled the skin and fizzed pleasantly up his nerve endings. Aziraphale pursed his lips. He didn’t know anything about _fizzy nerves._ He hoped it wasn’t a symptom of some deadly ailment. 

“It-it’s really very minor,” Aziraphale assured him. “I think. Not up to snuff on my mortal injuries, I’m afraid, but nothing is… spurting, so I think I may live.”

He’d been trying for levity, a balm to soothe the frantic scrape of Crowley’s nerves, but the demon looked up and the chuckle died on his tongue. Crowley’s expression was grim, jaw set in a stern angle that was totally at odds with the gentle way his hands rested on Aziraphale’s thigh. Warmth flooded Aziraphale’s chest, crept up his neck. This, he knew, was no mystery ailment. It was a malady he knew all too well. 

“Maybe we should stop,” Crowley said. “This—this stupid bet, it’s all nonsense anyway—”

“If you decide to forfeit, I win.”

“For Someone’s sake, Aziraphale, come off it. Why be so pigheaded about this?” Crowley’s fingers tightened minutely around Aziraphale’s thigh, his words pleading. “You’re injured. You could sort it out in a blink if you weren’t so bloody proud about it.”

Heat pooled in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach. It was intoxicating, to be held thus. “I… I’m not proud. I’m an angel. Humility is—is wound into our very beings.”

A scoff. “That’s crap and you know it.”

“And besides,” Aziraphale added, “if you’re so concerned about my wellbeing, why don’t you heal me yourself? Hmm?” A part of him demanded he keep speaking, certain that to stop would be to draw attention to Crowley’s hands, to make them stop touching him, and that was unacceptable. “I know what you’re up to, wily serpent. Your paltry playacting at kindness won’t fool me.”

He bit his lip the moment the words were out, cursing his own stupidity. Crowley withdrew his hands as his eyes narrowed to slits. _“Playacting—_ You know what? Fine. Fine! Let’s keep going.” He crossed his arms and glared at the plaster on Aziraphale’s leg. “See if I care when that gets infected. You know what happens then, right? Gangrene.”

“You’re being melodramatic.” If Aziraphale was blushing any more, that could be put down to annoyance – and he _was_ annoyed, annoyed and strangely bereft with the loss of that touch and furious with himself for getting soppy about something so trifling as a pair of hands on his thigh. A pair of slim, pale hands, hands with long, dexterous fingers, hands that belonged to a being he had loved for decades. Probably much longer. He shoved those thoughts aside. “These aren’t the medieval the ages, you know. You can’t make such grim pronouncements over a… a little boo-boo.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll just keep my lips sealed, then, shall I? And when your leg rots and falls off, don’t come crying to me.”

“Wish your _face_ would rot and fall off,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Gosh, angel, you really know how to cut a demon to the quick.”

“Be off with you. I’ve had enough of your torments.”

“Yeah, all right, I’m going,” Crowley huffed. He stood, stalked to the doorway, and halted. A glint of golden iris flickered over his shoulder as he glanced back. “But angel?”

“Yes?” Aziraphale sighed.

“If I win this wager, you’re paying a steep price. Know that.”

“I’m positively shaking in my socks, I assure you.”

“Snot.”

“Blaggard.”

Crowley left with a parting chuckle, the door clicking softly shut behind him. Aziraphale sat in the gathering silence for several minutes. His body was alight with twin points of fire: the lingering imprint of Crowley’s hands on his thigh, the pit of his belly. He must have been burned quite badly. 

-

Crowley was creeping down Piccadilly at a migraine-inducing ten miles-per-hour, fingers curled around in a death grip around the steering wheel as the memory of touching Aziraphale danced an endless gavotte around his mind. 

He could remember perfectly the feeling of the angel’s thigh cradled in his hands – the plush give of fat over firm muscle, a pleasing contrast Crowley’d had to fight not to squeeze, knead like a sculptor shaping clay. Soft and cuddly Aziraphale may be, but he was no less the Principality he had been back in the Garden. A being of immense, terrible power. 

And yet… his skin had been so soft. Crowley’s hands ached to hold him again, map every mound and crevice until he knew Aziraphale blind. Did the rest of him feel the same way? All inviting suppleness and strength? Crowley’s foot leaned harder on the gas pedal. What would the angel’s upper arms feel like? His back, his waist? And what of his lips? In all his (admittedly many) imaginings, Crowley envisioned Aziraphale’s lips as sweet but stubborn, as likely to kiss as chide. Pliant against Crowley’s, yielding with breathy gasps to his tongue. If Crowley were to cup his face in his hands, thread his fingers through the golden curls at the base of his neck, would they be silky or coarse? He remembered the latent strength in his thigh and imagined his hands moving up, up, taking him in hand—

Crowley saw something that made even his serpentine blood run cold. He slammed on the brakes, his trail of thought completely derailed. Car horns blared. 

He pulled over and killed the engine. He slipped out of the car and strode across the grass into a wide, ambling park. Everything had gone numb and fuzzy, as if his senses had been swaddled in wool. 

Several yards off, a man-shaped figure sat on a bench with his back to Crowley. He wore a stained trench coat of indeterminate color and one of his hands was draped over the benchtop, gloved fingers drumming idly. The sun lit his grubby, pale hair to the gleam of maggot-polished bone. 

Crowley’s every sense sharpened into focus. Could it be? No, it wasn’t possible. They’d dealt with Heaven and Hell, frightened them off for a few decades at least. It was too soon—

But if any demon had cause to wreak vengeance upon Crowley, it was Hastur.

A miracle smarted on Crowley’s fingertips with the need to be used. The wager meant nothing if Hastur was lurking about, nosing after them like a bloodhound on the scent. There could be no games when Heaven and Hell were back in the fray. He had to get away, had to find Aziraphale.

The figure on the bench bent double with an explosive sneeze. Crowley froze. As he dragged his sleeve across his nose, the man turned, revealing a glimpse of his face in profile. The air gusted Crowley’s lungs. Not Hastur. Just some poor sod unfortunate enough to manage a passing resemblance.

He wheeled around, heart hammering, and stopped. A traffic warden was circling the Bentley like a vulture in search of carrion. The back wheel had been booted.

“Fucking buggering _flames,”_ he hissed, and hastened toward the car. 

“Sorry sir,” the traffic warden said as he approached, barely lifting her eyes from her work. “It’s the law.”

“Oh, for—I was gone for less than a minute!”

“See that road, sir? The busy thoroughfare right there? That’s Piccadilly. You can’t simply park anywhere on it that catches your fancy. Safety hazard. This is a no parking zone.”

“You’re a no parking zone!”

“That’s nonsensical, sir.” She scribbled on a notepad, ripped off a ticket, and tucked it under a windshield wiper with the flourish of someone who gets a sick thrill out of ruining peoples’ days. “Have a good day.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Crowley retorted. It was only once the words were out, shrill beyond sense, that he realized how idiotic they had been. He clapped a hand over his mouth.

The traffic warden narrowed her eyes. 

-

Later, Crowley resigned himself to framing the ASBO.

-

Aziraphale was at his wits’ end. 

“I’m sorry, miss, but that book is absolutely _not_ for sale,” he said. “Come to think of it, I don’t recall putting it on display—how did you—”

“I really must have it,” the woman – middle-aged, wealthy, self-important in the manner of people used to getting their way – clutched Aziraphale’s precious second-edition of _The Hobbit_ in her clammy, acrylic-tipped fingers as though fearing he would tear it away from her. 

He would. He was beginning to see the merits of outright violence – if ever a moral argument needed weight lent to it, it was now. 

“I’ve told you multiple times,” he said, fighting off hysteria, “it is _not for sale._ Now, if you would kindly hand it over and… be on your way, the shop needs to close for, for cleaning.”

The woman shook her head vehemently. “I absolutely will not leave without this book. Really, there’s no point in being coy – name a price and you’ll have it.”

“I highly doubt that.” Aziraphale stepped around the till and reached for the book, but she edged out of his reach. He glowered. “Please, miss, that book is priceless to me—”

“It was on display in your shop,” she said. “What kind of shopkeep are you, if you can’t sell your wares? If you won’t deign to sell, then you’ve no business running a bookshop. Leave the collecting to those who take it seriously.” She drew in a deep breath, making a show of tidying away the entire situation. As if _he_ were being unreasonable, and only needed a firm hand to stop him from embarrassing himself. She pulled a fat handful of notes from her snakeskin bag. “Now, here. This should be more than sufficient. You won’t get a better offer.”

Aziraphale shook his head. This couldn’t be happening. Were he using miracles, he would befuddle the stubborn harpy and send her on her way, but all he could do now was set a hand atop the book. His fingers warred with hers. “I must ask you to—”

“Let go of me this instant,” the woman shrilled. Aziraphale released her, more out of alarm than anything, and she dropped the handful of notes on the till and turned toward the door. 

“Stop,” Aziraphale said. His voice was a thin rattle in his own ears. “Stop!”

The women scoffed, threw open the front door, and stepped out.

-

Crowley veered across two lanes of traffic, serenaded by the wails of embittered motorists, and jerked on the steering wheel. The Bentley careened around the corner of A.Z. Fell & Co. and Crowley slammed on the brakes, rocking to a halt. A couple of young men swore colorfully at him as he stepped out, knees like jelly, but he paid them no mind. He looked at the shop, scanning the murky windows for Aziraphale’s familiar silhouette. 

Seeing not-Hastur at the park had put him on edge. Made him paranoid. Every shadow behind every corner was a demon lurking, waiting to pounce. Every stiff-backed suit walking down the pavement was an angel sniffing after Diving Judgment. He had to see Aziraphale. Seeing the angel – seeing him safe, whole, fussy as always – would settle his nerves.

A car zipped past him on the street, pushing him sideways with a pulse of air. Things began happening very quickly. A middle-aged woman rushed out of the shop, the tinkle of the bell heralding her flight toward the street. Aziraphale flew out after her. His pace was hobbling, slow. His leg, Crowley realized. The burn was still hurting him.

The woman raced across the street just as the WALK signal lit up. Half a block away and closing in fast, the car changed lanes with a growl as it accelerated. Aziraphale stumbled into the street. His foot must have fallen strangely because he winced, stopping as he gasped and clapped a hand to his thigh. The car barreled toward him.

Crowley’s heart leapt into his throat and he didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of power from Below and in a blink he was at Aziraphale’s side, arms curved around him. In another blink they were on the other side of the road, intercepting the woman as she trotted to a halt. The car that had been about to speed through the red light veered into a postbox with a deafening crash. Pedestrians scattered away with cries of alarm. The driver would be bruised, but ultimately unharmed. Aziraphale would fret if Crowley inadvertently killed them. 

“What?” the woman gasped, witless with confusion. “What? What?”

“I’ll take that,” Crowley said, and peeled one hand away from Aziraphale to pluck the book from her limp grasp. He snapped his fingers in front of her face and her look of outrage vanished. “Off you go, now.”

Nodding vaguely, the woman turned around and wandered off down the pavement. 

“Nice bag,” Crowley commented at her retreating form. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale squeaked. It was only then that Crowley realized he was still holding the angel in a fierce embrace. He tore himself away, hands raised in a placating gesture. Then the reality of what just happened struck him like an anvil to the skull. He put his arms back around Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, blinking dazedly up at him. “Crowley, I— _mmph.”_

“Sorry,” Crowley gasped, pulling back from the kiss. He’d veered so quickly from dread to terror to relief to ecstatic joy that he could scarcely piece his thoughts together. He was drunk and high and blazing with exhilaration, and Aziraphale had tasted so sweet. He was famished for more. “Er, sorry. What were y’saying?”

“Um.” Aziraphale blinked again. His cheeks were as red as ripe apples. “Do you know, I can’t quite… hmm. Why…?”

“Dunno,” Crowley said, because it was worlds simpler than saying _if Heaven got its hands on you, I’m afraid they would never let you go._ “Uh… can I…?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said quickly. His hands slid up Crowley’s sides, fingers skating over the knobs of his ribs through his clothes, and suddenly Crowley couldn’t _not_ be kissing him anymore. He tugged him forward and it was deep and hungry and _perfect,_ the heady taste of lips meeting, tongues sliding together. They paused only when Crowley, trying to cup Aziraphale’s face in his hands, realized he was still holding the book. 

“Oh.” They drew apart. Crowley offered him the book. “Here.”

Aziraphale stared at him with renewed wonder and so, _so_ much love. Crowley’s skin buzzed with it. “You got it back. Oh, my darling.”

He made to take the book and Crowley tugged it just out of reach, flicking him a shit-eating grin. “What’s my prize, then?”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Oh. Oh! I won the bet! I won!”

“Fuck’s sake, angel.”

 _“My_ prize,” Aziraphale continued, punctuating the words with a teasing peck to Crowley’s mouth, “is… not fit to be accepted in public, I’m afraid.” He tilted his head back toward the shop. “Perhaps we could…?”

“Ngk.” Crowley bobbed his head vigorously. His throat was too full for proper speech, but he hoped he was getting the point across well enough. “Ngkngk.”

“Wonderful.” Aziraphale tugged him back across the street, mindful of the WALK signal and wayward traffic. He led Crowley through the door, locked it behind him, and flipped the sign to CLOSED.

-

Days later – it had indeed been days – Crowley lay sprawled across Aziraphale’s back, listening intently to the angel’s breathy sighs and moans as he worked his fingers in and out, in and out. He'd seen to the burn as soon as they were behind closed doors; after that, he'd done a much more thorough inspection of every inch of Aziraphale's body. _Making sure you didn't injure yourself any more without noticing, angel._ Aziraphale had made to protest, but Crowley quite effectively shut him up by kissing a path up his bare thigh and taking his cock between his lips. 

Crowley canted his hips, gritting his teeth against a groan as Aziraphale tilted back his arse against him. Crowley swiped his tongue across his shoulder, tasting and scenting sweat. 

A knock sounded, distantly, and they fell still. It came from the front door of the shop. Crowley waited on Aziraphale’s word. 

“Mr. Fell! Mr. Fell, I know you’re in there!” The voice was deep, coal-rough, in a Brummie accent. “Don’t push me, Mr. Fell.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. Before Crowley quite knew what was happening, he was sitting beside Aziraphale on the bed, hands resting innocently – horribly – in his lap. Both he and the angel were fully-clothed, Aziraphale frowning as he fussed with his cufflinks. “We’ll have to resume this later, dear boy. How do you feel about a miracle or two? Just to sort out some ruffians?”

“I… I guess?” Crowley said. He was still reeling from the abrupt change of mood. “Sssure?”

“They threatened to burn down my shop,” Aziraphale added.

Crowley snapped fully into the present. “Yeah. All right. Let’s fuck ‘em up, angel.”

Aziraphale pulled him into a quick, filthy kiss. “Let’s.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at ineffablegame on Tumblr!


End file.
